


A Very Simple Thing

by CommanderRoastedWolf



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Multi, Non-Binary Inquisitor, Varric plays matchmaker, other pairings are minor, pentilyet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5016682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderRoastedWolf/pseuds/CommanderRoastedWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra's at a loss for words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Simple Thing

Words.

Words would never be her strong point. Yet, as she sits over the grubby table on the second floor of Skyhold’s tavern, she finds herself reaching fruitlessly for them.

They elude her. As usual.

Herald’s Rest is busy in the late evening, and gloriously warm. Winter is in the midst of folding her white wings around the mountain top fortress, bringing with her bitter winds and snow. Below Cassandra’s table, she can hear the Iron Bull shamelessly boasting of his latest dragon kill, inciting raucous laughter and the gentle jingle of coins.

She valiantly attempts to block the sounds out, leaning more solidly over her parchment. She knows it is hardly wise to seat herself here, in the heart of the bustling evening, but she cannot stand the idea of being alone with her thoughts – or her pathetic excuse for literature.

 _‘You are as lovely as the dawn,_  
_Gentle as a fawn.’_

“Maker preserve me.” She hisses, scratching out the word ‘fawn’ as though it had done her a personal injustice. Poetry, as lovely as it is to listen to, is difficult to write without sounding… pretentious. And, never mind it is a _love_ poem. The thought still sends a scalding wash of embarrassment into her stomach.

Never mind that the poem is for someone who is an artist with words.

Cassandra makes a harsh, disgusted noise in the back of her throat, resisting the urge to crumple the parchment and toss it into the nearest fireplace. Instead she tightens her grip on her quill, brow furrowed in three parts frustration and one part mortified anger.

“Careful, Seeker, you might hurt yourself.”

Varric’s voice sends her heart leaping out of her chest and into her mouth. Only years upon years of training ensure that she does not jump out of her own skin in shock. Instead she calmly covers her writing, turning her head to peer at the amused looking dwarf, who is carrying a mug of ale.

“What do you want?” She asks with a bluntness borne out of fear of discovery. Varric laughs and indicates the seat across from her with a nod of his head.

“Mind if I take a seat?”

“I don’t suppose saying ‘no’ will stop you.” She sits back in her chair, dragging the parchment with her and sliding it surreptitiously under the table, along with her quill. Only her inkpot remains.

“Oh, come now, Seeker,” Varric chides, his deep voice rough with mirth, “I’m wounded that you’d think that of me.”

She levels a withering look his way, but he takes it in his stride, settling deep in his seat and staring over his tankard at her. They sit in a few moments of silence, the boisterous barking laughter of the Inquisitor – loud and harsh in their ears – reaching them. A quick glance over the banister shows that they are with Hawke, their battered horns bobbing as they slap the table with a large fist, making everything rattle dangerously.

“Why are you here?” She asks, looking back at him. The parchment in her lap feels as though it is burning her. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs with the Champion?”

Varric takes a gulp of ale, swallowing and sighing broadly. He sets his mug down with a thunk, smiling warmly. “I’ve been watching you, Seeker. You looked as though you needed some help.”

 _Caught. Red handed._ Her cheeks burn, humiliation surpassing irritation into full-blown rage with the swiftness of a roaring wildfire.

“Where you _spying_ on me?!” She hisses furiously and Varric laughs – _actually laughs_.

“Andraste’s tits, no. I saw you when I walked in. You’re never here, so I thought I should come investigate.” He nods to the inkpot. “What are you writing?”

“A letter.” It is not a total lie. She was planning to send the poem using one of Leliana’s ravens.

“To who?”

“No one.” She says the words a little too quickly, and curses internally. How does a dwarf she interrogated for months intimidate her? The very same dwarf who’s writing she reads avidly?

However, rather than scoffing and smirking, Varric’s expression softens. “Ah. Someone important, then.”

Bright, friendly laughter flutters up towards them like a bird on the spring breeze. Cassandra’s stomach becomes a roiling mass of butterflies, and she risks a look. Josephine is here, dressed in her usual gold and blue attire. Through the haze of pipe smoke, Cassandra can see the warmth in Josephine’s eyes, the beautiful lit to her mouth as she smiles, and starts speaking to the Champion, her dark eyes alight with curiosity.

Her heart clenches painfully as Josephine rests a hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder.

“Ruffles really is something. Cleverest woman I’ve met – barring Leliana of course.” Varric says, his thumb gently stroking the spine of his mug. His gaze is firmly fixed on Cassandra.

“She is–” _Lovely, beautiful, made of better stuff than me and Varric and everyone else in Skyhold._ _She deserves everything I cannot give her, and yet I pine for her like a lovesick puppy._ “Quite something.” She finishes, lamely.

Varric chuckles, and takes another drink. His throat shifts as he swallows once, twice, three times, the mug tilting back until he has drained it. He places it gently in front of him.

“She talks about you all the time,” he says. “Always asking how you are, what you are doing. She wanted to provide a bed for you – in the forge – a proper one rather than the cot you’re sleeping in. I told her ‘don’t, or Cassandra will forget not to smile’.”

“How thoughtful of you.” She replies coldly. She can’t help but feel a perverse curiosity – what did Josephine say after that? But she does not want to ask. It is embarrassing enough that Varric is talking about Josephine to her. Does he know? The thought sends something akin to panic thrilling down her spine. She can see it now, the title of his next book: ‘Seduced in Skyhold’, or ‘An Antivan Night’.

“Yes, well. She scolded me, and said that your smile was very charming because it was so rare. And that was what was special about it.” He chuckles indulgently, watching her knowingly as her heart leaps. “Sees the best in everyone, Ruffles does.”

Hawke and the Inquisitor are having an arm wrestle – Sera appeared from somewhere and is hanging onto the Inquisitor’s free arm, cheering them on. Varric stares down at them, grinning happily. The entire tavern is suddenly alive with cheering, Bull is thunking his mug against his table with the other Chargers, the minstrel – Maryden was it? – is strumming some sort of drumroll on her lute. Dorian, who seems to have slinked in from the cold, has lain himself on Bull’s shoulders. Josephine is watching avidly, her hands clasped in front of her mouth, face brilliant and as blinding as the sun.

“I should go down there. Make sure Hawke doesn’t cause any more trouble.” Varric gets to his feet, and at that moment, there is a mighty crash. The Inquisitor’s bunched arm has pinned Hawke’s to the table. The Herald’s Rest explodes into howlings of mirth – including Hawke, who is shouting joyously along with the rest. Sera, in what appears to be a stirring of excitement, takes hold of the Inquisitor’s horns and drags them into a fierce kiss.

Josephine claps along with everyone else, her dark eyes darting up to meet Cassandra’s. She smiles, much to the melting of Cassandra’s stomach, and offers a small wave. Despite herself, Cassandra waves back.

“You should talk to her, Seeker.” Varric claps a hand onto her shoulder as he trots past. He winks in the face of Cassandra’s spluttering, and then he’s off, hurrying down the stairs to join the revelry.

Cassandra stays in her seat, jaw clenched, incensed and humiliated. She can hear Josephine congratulating the Inquisitor, the sweet scent of Orlesian sweets meeting her – strong, sharp and mouth watering. Varric is right. Of course she should talk to her. But actually _doing_ it is difficult. There is the Inquisition to consider, not to mention her pride. If things did not go well between them, if Cassandra had to suffer a spurning, things could get very awkward.

She glances down at the parchment. At the words there, now crumpled in the grip of her anger. She could ask Leliana for help. Although she isn’t sure she’d survive the teasing. Besides, what if Leliana told Josephine?

No. Varric is right. She will have to do what she does best, and that certainly isn’t trying to write poetry. She has to face the issue head on.

She gets to her feet, tucks her quill and bottles her ink, and strides towards the stairs, shoving the paper into her pocket.


End file.
